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"Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim." –Bertrand Russell

"Step back!" Hotch took a step to the side as Morgan's foot came into contact with the door—seconds later, the two of them entered the room with their guns raised, adrenaline pumping—

It was empty.

"Clear," Hotch muttered, bewildered.

Morgan sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Hotch," he said. "That was the last room. I don't think anyone's been here in years."

Hotch ran his hand through his hair—he shook his head. "No," he muttered. "It doesn't make any sense."

"We were wrong, Hotch," Morgan said. "It's not the cabin. Hell, we still aren't sure if Booker is even the unsub..."

Hotch stared despondently around him. "But…this would be the only place," he muttered. "He couldn't take him back to the house…it all made sense…"

"Sometimes it doesn't make sense, Hotch," Morgan said. "Come on. Let's go back."

Hotch shook his head once again. "No," he muttered suddenly. "Just because we don't know the answer…doesn't mean it doesn't make sense…"

Morgan sighed. "Alright, Hotch," he said, "But this cabin is abandoned. Let's go out to the—Hotch? Where are you going?"

Hotch didn't respond. He was already running out the door—he turned and ran around into the backyard. He surveyed the grounds expectantly—Morgan emerged several seconds later.

"There's no shed," Hotch said, before Morgan had a chance to speak.

"I know, Hotch," Morgan said, "If there were, we would have checked it."

Hotch shook his head. "It's a cabin in the middle of the woods," he muttered. "There's a river less than a hundred yards away from the house. They would have needed a shed to keeping fishing equipment in. Or…" he trailed off, running his hands through his hair. "Something. Somewhere to keep all of the maintenance equipment—the sheriff said the house was modernized. Everything they needed wouldn't have fit inside the cabin. There's no garage."

"Hotch," Morgan said, "What the hell are you talking about? Maybe it would have been a better idea for the Bookers to have built a shed, but the thing is, they didn't, so I really don't think…"

Something caught Hotch's eye. He smiled. "I know," he said, "But that means they must have kept it somewhere else." Hotch started walking across the yard.

Morgan sighed. "You're grasping at straws here, Hotch," he said, "Maybe they didn't like fishing. Maybe they kept their lawnmower outside their house. Just because you want there to be a—Hotch, where the hell are you going?"

"Shut up," Hotch snapped. He was already on the other side of the house. "Look," he said triumphantly. "It's a bulkhead."

"A what?" Morgan snapped. He had not moved.

"Get over here!" Hotch called. "One of those slanted doors that conceal the stairwells to basements. We didn't see it, because it was on the other side of the house…"

Morgan jogged over. "We can check it out," he said, "But that thing looks like it hasn't been opened in years…"

"That's what he wants us to think," Hotch said. "Look at the grass."

"The grass…?"

"Indentations," Hotch said. "It hasn't been mowed in years, so you can see where someone has stepped—"

"Could be an animal," Morgan suggested.

"Yes," Hotch said, "Or, we could open this up and find out before he kills Reid." With these words, Hotch bent down and yanked desperately at the doors—they were locked, but the wood was so rotted that he pulled the door off its hinges with ease.

"Hotch," Morgan said. "There's a small chance that you're right. But Booker's parents both died of carbon monoxide poisoning—do we really want to go into their concealed, underground basement?"

"That was years ago," Hotch snapped.

"The rest of the team's checking the rest of the area," Morgan continued, "We'll wait for them to come back."

Hotch shook his head slowly. "I have this feeling," he said, "That we don't have enough time." He sighed. "We never have enough time," he muttered grimly. Finally, he turned to Morgan. "I'll go in by myself," he said, "Just to clear it."

"But, Hotch—"

"Get out of the way, Morgan," Hotch snapped, sharply. "I'm your superior. You have to listen to me."

Reluctantly, Morgan stepped out of the way—however, to Hotch's surprise, he had barely stepped onto the first stair when he heard his colleague climbing in behind him.

"What are you doing?" Hotch hissed.

"I trust you, Hotch," Morgan said, "And if you think Reid and the unsub are in there…" he trailed off. "I'm not letting you go in alone," he whispered. "We go in together."

Hotch held his eyes for a moment. Finally, he nodded, then directed the light on his gun down the staircase. Everything was deathly silent. The stairs in front of them spiraled downwards and then turned a corner. Hotch took two more steps, trying to keep as silent as possible—then he rounded the corner and held his gun up.

"Lloyd Booker, this is the FBI!" he shouted. There was no response.

"Hotch." It was Morgan who spoke—his friend was pointing his light in the far corner of the room, where there was a figure lying with his face to the wall.

"Reid!" Morgan moved before Hotch could—he was already turning the figure over when Hotch suddenly felt his foot stick to the floor. He froze, and shined his flashlight at the ground.

It was covered in blood.

"Call the medics!" Morgan shouted, rather unnecessarily. Hotch did it robotically—after that, he just stared. He couldn't fathom somebody losing that much blood and remaining alive.

"I was too late," Hotch muttered, more to himself than to Morgan. "I was right, and it didn't matter."

"Hotch," Morgan interrupted. "He's got a pulse."

Immediately, Hotch bent down next to Reid and felt his wrist. It was ice cold—but there was no denying the faint, but steady beat of a pulse. Suddenly, Reid let out a moan.

"Reid?" Morgan demanded, "Can you hear me?"

Reid didn't open his eyes. "Go away, Tobias," he muttered, "I made the wrong choice."

"Reid, it's Hotch and Morgan," Hotch said. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine."

"Seven, two, eight, zero…" Reid began, then stopped. "Did I make the wrong choice?" he mumbled, still keeping his eyes closed. "He's gone. There are rabbits everywhere." Then his head slumped to the side and he fell silent.

"Reid?" Hotch demanded. He reached for his wrist again—if there was still a pulse, it was too weak for him to feel it. He felt nothing. "Reid?"

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs as the paramedics came rushing down. Hotch hastily got to his feet and moved out of the way. Morgan followed a second later, but was unable to take his eyes off of Reid.

"God," he muttered, so softly that Hotch could barely hear him, "He was right."

"Is he going to be okay?" Hotch demanded of the paramedics as they lifted Reid onto a stretcher.

"Please move out of the way, sir," the paramedic said, as the small group hurried by towards the stairs.

Hotch's eyes followed the group—suddenly, however, he saw something white out of the corner of his eye. He frowned as he approached it—it was a piece of paper that had been thumb-tacked to the wall.

"Morgan," Hotch said, "Look at this."

Morgan—who had evidently been about to follow Reid up the stairs—turned around, irritated. "What?" he demanded off Hotch.

"There's a note here," Hotch said.

"Reid is dying, and all you care about is a piece of paper?" Morgan snapped. He turned around again.

"It's a message," Hotch muttered, "And it's for us."

Morgan stopped short—he frowned slightly. "What does it say?" he asked, after a moment.

Hotch adjusted his flashlight, narrowing his eyes to better make out the words. The handwriting was so terrible that it was difficult to see. Finally, after a moment or two of silence, Hotch began to read.

Dear BAU,

I'll admit that I wasn't being fair to you before. After all, how are you supposed to win a game if you don't know who your opponent is? If you don't even know you're playing? That's not a very fair game, is it?

I knew you'd find Spencer in time to save him—if you didn't, you wouldn't be worth playing with, anyways. Did you really expect me to kill the most interesting player in the game?

You might have thought the game was over, but the real fun is just starting. I look forward to playing with you—may the best man win!

Yours Sincerely,

Officer Lloyd Booker